


roscoe

by catarinquar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catarinquar/pseuds/catarinquar
Summary: Ask him and she’s never been more than five foot three of pure, pent up badassery; five foot six at most, on the rare occasion that she goes all out with the heels - and he has certainly always paid attention. But with the last of her baby fat and those boxy suits she'd at least still had some substance; she seemed to lose both with Melissa even before cancer and chemo began eating away at her, and as it is now there's simply to little Scully left in his world.-late s4. nature and nosebleeds is what maine does best. mulder and scully are on a case.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> i know nothing about maine's geography; i googled a bit and found satisfactory pictures.

It’s not that it surprises him, but it does very suddenly hit him: Maine is beautiful during the fall. That is what he's thinking as they drive along the coastal road; greyish, wet seashore a hundred metres to the right and pine forest to the left, up, up, up.

Scully's hair is on fire with the sun rising late behind her; she’s hypnotized by the waves and he thinks, this is good. This, right here in this moment, just the two of them in their rented Ford Taurus with their packed bags in the trunk, driving, on a case - this is right.

Five suspicious deaths as many years ago; cause never determined but also never thoroughly investigated. Not necessarily something that'd land on their table, but when a new body showed up yesterday, a local freelance journalist who'd once done some digging into the old cases decided to contact them late last night.

Which is to say, Elizabeth Jones contacted _him_ , but it is still _their_ table, he insists; reminds himself. If it weren't, that would have certain other implications, now.

So here they are, and he wonders, just briefly, how long it'll last yet. _I wish for my birthday, Scully, that you please not be dead._

Their town sign pops up in the distance and they’ve only just passed it when another guides them off the main road to a motel.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs.

Scully jerks.

“Hm?”

“Nothin’. Were you sleeping?”

“No,” she says.

He didn't think she were; is pretty sure she’s had her eyes open every single time he's glanced at her since they sped out of the car rental parking lot; still, the fact that she hasn't noticed, or at least given any indication to having noticed just exactly that - it says a lot.

Her eyes crinkle and he can see her throat work it's way around a yawn.

“Eyes on the road, Mulder,” she says then, without ever looking at him. So there's that. He complies; might be that he blushes a little, but what he also does is shoot her one last glance - and this time the corners of her mouth are quirking up just a bit.

Even if the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes; even if those are a little too tired - he decides that the simply act of trying must still count towards something like her being okay.

On an additional last glance, though, she’s not wearing earrings.

He spots the entrance to the motel parking lot only at the last second and the turn ends up being a little tight even for Scully with her lead foot. Her hand flies to the handle bar.

“Sorry.”

She only hums, then gives him a wan smile when they exit the car a few seconds later.

The clerk is a young kid who apparently hasn’t had to deal with government agents before, but with Mulder providing guidance as best as he’s able from his perspective, they manage to work out two connecting rooms in a timely fashion anyway. He thinks Scully only yawns twice.

“Equal or unequal, Scully?” he asks, fiddling with two blue number tags, nine and ten. “Left or right?” then, as if they’re negotiating who gets which side of the bed.

“Whichever doesn’t have a flickering bathroom light,” she says, not exactly in his direction.

“Sure.” He gestures to the car. “Hop in?”

Serves him the Scully eyebrow.

“It’s thirty-five metres, Mulder. I’ll just walk it.”

“Sure”, he says again and gets in the car himself.

Sure, alright, of course. Makes sense. No, that’s the biggest lie of all; as much as he’d like it to, it makes no sense to him at all. He reminds himself he’s not here to analyse his partner, but to solve a crime. Contemplates that little fact while he parks again and starts to unload their bags; the fact that currently there is, officially, no crime to be solving, meaning they’re not on a timetable yet.

He catches Scully’s eyes and wonders why he insisted on leaving so early. There was turbulence on the flight and he knows she didn't sleep.

He also knows he told Elizabeth Jones that they’d be here sometime in the afternoon; it’s only ten forty now. That's a timetable, alright.

“We’re not seeing our source until three pm, so, uh… there’s time to get settled, go over those original case files, you know.” _You know, you know, maybe take a nap, Scully, if you want to._ “Eat lunch, I guess.”

She nods, blinks, reaches for her bag and he hands it to her together with the number nine key, maybe because three times three must mean extra luck; and because she’s not stupid but rather stubborn she turns around to unlock her door before saying, “alright, Mulder. I saw a bakery up the road. They probably have decent sandwiches.”

“Sure,” is what he eventually settles for again before entering his own room.

He hears the connecting door being unlocked but it doesn’t open. After a moment’s indecisiveness he turns on the bathroom light. It holds out for a few seconds, then flickers.

Half and hour later, Scully is asleep when he comes back with their decent sandwiches.

-

Mulder gives her a look when she comes out of her room wearing a sweater, but he doesn’t say anything and he thankfully keeps his eyes on the road while they drive. She has to fish the map out after a short while, though; it’s a small town in terms of population but not in terms of geographical size or sheer amount of side roads.

“I called down to the station, spoke with some sheriff’s deputy. Jack Martin, I think.”

“There should be a right coming up here,” she says after a long enough pause that he must know she wasn’t going to answer with anything useful. He carefully slows down before making the turn. “And then a left in about a mile.” She folds the map together. _Answer, answer, answer_. “So, what’d he say?”

“I just called to let them know we were here. And, uh, that you’d like a look at that body tomorrow.”

Because she so very,  _very_ much would like a look at some dead body. She’ll do it, of course, it’s the job and it is what it is; moreover she knows what he means and yet his choice of words sits unwell with her. What she would like - well, a week in cold and rainy Maine does not even make the top two hundred, never mind the fact that she doesn’t know for sure what _does_.

“How’s the morgue?” she ventures.

Silence. She taps the folded map; he twitches.

“It’s there. We’ll send stuff to Quantico if it’s necessary.”

“Good. Left here,” she reminds him.

This last road turns out to end with what must be their journalists’ house. Medium cottage, oversized Range Rover. Not a single other house in sight, but an overabundance of birds that can be heard even before Mulder turns off the ignition.

“Freelance journalist, huh?”

“She did say she’s had some big pieces. And I think the husband’s a doctor or something.”

“Oh.”

“Uhm. Brain surgeon.”

“ _Oh_.” She taps the map again, tucks it into the glove compartment, and exits the car.

With a little effort, it’s possible she could get used to the birds.

Mulder falls in behind her and she wonders if the familiar New England air has rekindled his inner gentleman. Not that his hand resting at the small of her back isn’t an everyday occurrence.

Still, she begins fishing for her badge even before they reach the porch, but a step from the top the door opens wide and a woman practically jumps out.

“Hi! I’m Elizabeth. Agent Mulder, we spoke on the phone, of course.” What’s that, barely two sentences out of her mouth and Scully is wondering if she got it from the birds or the birds got it from her.

Mulder looks overwhelmed but not surprised as he reaches past her to shake hands with the overeager creature. He gestures towards Scully.

“Yes, uh - thanks for contacting us. Mrs. Jones, this is my partner, agent Scully.”

Elizabeth Jones, despite not having any immediate neighbours, is some type of next-door neighbour pretty; soft face, big smile and bigger eyes. Incidentally, no makeup. She could be Scully’s age, or a little younger, or a little older; what time _hasn’t_ inflicted on her in any case is eight months of terminal illness, pointless and debilitating treatment inclusive.

“Hi, just Elizabeth,” she grins. “Please, please, come in.”

No, Elizabeth Jones’ cozy entrance hall is filled with outdoor apparel, his and hers - also in baby sizes. She has a firm handshake, toned forearms, broad shoulders and a natural tan; what she probably also has are a dozen bird feeders in that huge back yard and a guide to edible wild mushrooms - or no, Scully decides then, she doesn’t even need the guide. Hikers: go figure.

Scully herself has lost more weight since being diagnosed than she ever has from exercising in her entire life, but while she is admittedly enjoying her cheekbones she’d hand them over to this epitome-of-health nature-woman in a second just to get some muscle mass back. Or grow a few inches.

She is aware of being petty. She does not feel bad for it.

Further in there’s a polite collection of family photographs; baby, baby, baby, a young couple, and all three together.

So it might hit her like a hangover tomorrow morning.

Either the two minutes’ exposure to the birds outside gave her tinnitus or, just as likely, she can still hear them in here. It’s hard to follow the conversation in any event, though the offer of coffee brings her back for a few minutes.

A stack of photographs has been brought out on the table and she leans forward to at least appear attentive to _something_.

“I can’t even remember what I was researching for at the time, but I thought it was odd, you know, to have him show up in pictures with all of them,” Jones says.

“You never contacted any authorities before?” Mulder asks.

She flushes a little, then grins; that seems to be her standard response to everything.

“Well, this was two years ago, so three years after the deaths.” She shrugs, “it just didn’t seem like it would be enough to get anyone to do something, you know.”

Scully studies the photographs. They’re from different private collections, she assumes by the differing sizes and print brands on the back, but it is indeed the same man in conversation with each of the victims from five years ago; some on several occasions judging by the change of clothes.

Regular-looking. Short hair, minimal beard, a variety of t-shirts.

“Elizabeth, did you ever get so far as to identify him?” Mulder asks, and Scully only just resists rolling her eyes. _Elizabeth_.

“Ninety-nine percent, I suppose? Uhm, a Joseph Perkins.”

“Do you also happen to know where we can find him?”

“Well, he’s reclusive to say the least. Lives out in the forest, a ways off the main road.”

As if this isn’t out in the forest and _a ways off the main road_. Petty, petty, petty.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,” she asks then, mostly to have said _something_. “Is it not accessible for a car?”

“Oh, I’d say you can drive most of the way up there, but you’ll have to make the last three hundred yards or so on foot, I’m afraid,” she says, and Scully thinks, _you’re a hiker; you’d be elated_. Jones lights up. “I can mark it on a map for you, if you’d like.

“That would be helpful,” Scully smiles. “Thank you.”

-

Scully calls the deputy this time, asking him if he knows Joseph Perkins. Possession, DUI, nothing big. A hermit, nowadays. Well, they’re driving up to check him out, in any event. So.

No idling in the car this time when they stop; she’s out and making her way up the downthrod path through the thicket before he’s even loosened his seatbelt.

She should button her coat, he thinks. If she's cold enough to wear sweaters and scarfs on the job, she should button her coat; or at least put the scarf to its intended purpose instead of just leaving it dangling like a -

Oh, like a loose fucking noose.

It occurs to him, as the layers of black wool fan out around her, the wrong colours for a ghost after all, that maybe that’s the point; to take up space and demand attention.

Ask him and she’s never been more than five foot three of pure, pent up badassery; five foot six at most, on the rare occasion that she goes all out with the heels - and he has certainly always paid attention. But with the last of her baby fat and those boxy suits she'd at least still had some substance; she seemed to lose both with Melissa even before cancer and chemo began eating away at her, and as it is now there's simply to little Scully left in his world.

He thinks that’s not so far off from what she’s thinking herself.

Another thing, then, is that there's too little time left in both their worlds, but especially hers; she conceded to terrain-friendly boots before they left the motel and he only catches up with her on the steps to the rotting front porch. Even then he'd swear she purposefully waits for him before she takes the last step forward to knock.

The door rattles and shakes beneath her knuckles, again, again; the requisite three times before the magic words of _FBI, open up_ , finally summons the occupant. If he's generous, Mulder might admit that the thirty-something man bears more than just a passing resemblance to the guy in their photographs, but the greasy, choppy hair and muddy flannel-jean combo sure is a - departure.

Moreover, Joseph Perkins reeks.

“Mr. Perkins? I’m agent Scully and this is my partner agent Mulder. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigations.”

She's been quicker to draw out her badge these last eight months, too - not that it bothers him in the slightest; if she really wanted to drive the car they both know he'd let her do that too in a heartbeat and not even snicker when she moved the seat up as far as it could go. No, what it is is this; that he can't help but think that these are the kind of things she feels like she has to do now, all the time, as much as possible, while she still can.

Before it is Too Late with capital T-L.

Perkins gives a non-committal grunt and seems to size them up; what he really does, Mulder realises, is give Scully what must be the most unapologetic once-over in recorded history. Intervention registers as a remote possibility; Mulder is a head higher than Scully and has at least a couple of inches on the hermit. All he will need to do is lean forward a little and he’ll have effectively staked out his territory.

This isn’t his game, though; really it isn’t his playing field at all, and as it is Perkins transgression does not go unnoticed by judge, jury, and executioner agent Scully. Her shoulders go back and her chin goes up.

“We're investigating a case in the area and would like to ask you a few questions in that regard. May we come in?”

Perkins leans forward in that way older or other hard-of-hearing people might do, but inappropriately so - and it's clear in any event that _hearing_ Scully is not his main objective.

“And what kinda case would that be, missy?” he drawls and it's almost a surprise to hear him speak at all; here Mulder was beginning to take the creep's animalistic behaviour as a sign that good ol’ New England would be where he finally found his sasquatch after all - as disappointing a specimen as this would be.

That Scully manages to keep a bland face is beyond him, though it probably speaks to her uncomfortability with the man.

“I’m afraid I can’t reveal the larger connections at present, but as part of our investigation we have acquired a set of photographs. You happen to be what they all have in common. Is it possibly we could come inside and discuss -”

“Don't see why it'd be more exciting to discuss anything inside, lady,” Perkins sneers and Mulder begins to reconsider the need for disciplinary measures; Scully, however, has only now broken out the unimpressed eyebrow. Perkins turns to him with a leery grin, says, “unless of course you’re just here to stand guard out here while she and I do the, uh - discussing, no?”

So that's it. Fibbie stand; lean forward and put your hand on your hip to show off the gun. Additionally, dial up the Boston accent to claim your turf.

“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to behave. Now, are you going to let us in and answer our questions, or do you want to come down to the station with us? I hear you _are_ familiar with the sheriff’s deputy, what’s his name, deputy Martin?”

Not quite what the bastard wanted, clearly; but the way Perkins’ eyes narrow for just a second before he steps back to let Scully in is all the warning Mulder needs - _it’s all a game; he’s not so much perverted as trying to be smart; he has something to hide; he is definitely our guy. Watch out watch out watch_ \- and so he manages to jam the door before it slams shut between Scully and him.

When it swings back open the sonuvabitch has his hands twisted in her scarf. _Loose fucking noose, loose fucking noose_ and Scully is _not_ strangled right in front of his eyes as the wool uncoils and falls from her shoulders; instead the back of her skull connects with door jamb directly to Mulder's left when Perkins shoves her.

A strangled sort of gasp escapes her throat but she's not even _down_ in any sense of the word before she sets off.

Perkins has disappeared from the room. Another door slaps against a wall, somewhere.

“Goddamnit, Mulder, come _on!”_ His partner, somewhere else.

What a fucking fine FBI agent he is; never even drawing his gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://catarinquar.tumblr.com)!


	2. II.

Pathetic act or not, there are a few very particular places she’d like to shoot Perkins and so it really is too bad that she missed the chance where she could have rightfully claimed self defense.

He’s circling around the house, she realises.

“Mulder! Out front!”

Whatever her _partner’s_ momentary, stupefied freeze in there had been about - and they’ll need to have a talk about that, she decides - she’s glad he’s snapped out of it as he catches up to her and then continues down the hillside in a mad dash, hot on Perkins’ heels. She’s by no means slow herself, but the sorry fact just is that being tall tends to have its advantages in the speed department; she can keep up with the jerk no problem but she’s not exactly gaining on him.

As they near the car she debates whether to get in and assist in the pursuit that way, but of course Mulder has the keys and in any event Perkins just speeds past, across the road and up the steeper incline on the other side.

She’s thankful for her nap and for adrenaline and for changing into sensible footwear before they left the motel, and maybe a little for Billy and his friends never waiting up for her; at age six she could scale the wet and salt-slick San Diego beach rocks backwards and with her eyes closed - this mix of exposed cliff, loose pine needles, and partially composted branches is just a variation on a theme.

Throw in the trees, though, and it's clear that it is Perkins’ very own variation: while Scully is gaining ever so slightly on her partner, the asshole is getting further away.

If she pretended she was racing Jones, maybe… but that train of thought is unfair to everyone involved.

She could stop and take aim, order him to stop, even flout all policy and fire a warning shot - but she doubts he would care; he's got too much cover and they all know it.

Just then he disappears behind the top ledge, and Mulder after him. When the ground flattens out beneath Scully's own feet, it takes her a moment before she catches a glimpse of the black trench coat now thirty feet in front of her; the undergrowth is much denser here where there's a consistent layer of soil on top of the rock.

Over the sound of her own breathing she hears water, louder as they get nearer. A river could either be a very good thing or a very bad thing, but considering that Perkins has no doubt lead them here on purpose, it is likely the latter.

There's one splash followed by another, and _fuck_ doesn't even begin to cover it when it occurs to her that _that_ roar is not just a river: it's a waterfall.

“Mulder!”

Just then, the trees disappear and she skids to a halt on the polished river stones.

It's wide but not deep, not at first sight; they're only in to their knees but Perkins is zig zagging in an odd pattern and from the raised bank where Scully is standing, it becomes clear why: he is avoiding the darker areas where the water is deeper and the stream that much stronger.

Mulder is not, and just then his right leg disappears beneath him before he falls backwards and under.

There's a loud sound which might be coming from her, then she drops her coat and whips her sweater over her head just as Perkins gets up and out on the other side.

-

 _Oh no_.

Mulder is well aware that he fucks up on a daily basis, but it is rare that he has an actual _oh no-_ moment.

When his foot sinks down into nothingness as the river bed disappears beneath him and he falls backwards to watch the sky be swallowed above him as his own head goes under the water’s surface, it’s one. When the distorted sound of Scully crying out his name reaches him, it’s another.

When he breaks the surface again he is much, much closer to that damn waterfall; incidentally, Scully is much, much closer to _him_ , trying to stay upright as the waist-high water threatens to push her forward.

He wants to warn her; tell her to get the hell out of the water because it’s treacherous; because it’s cold as all hell; because the river bed will disappear under her; because there are undercurrents - but of course she wouldn’t be in here at all if he, sonuvabitch that he is, didn’t fall straight into one such undercurrent.

A gurgled _Scuhl_ is all he manages before he’s dragged back under. This time, at least, he can feel solid rock beneath his feet but it’s flat and there’s little purchase; if he doesn’t find something to hold onto the stream will get hold of him and drag him backwards again in a matter of seconds.

Getting his coat off would make things easier, but the action itself is too risky.

“Mulder!” she calls, somewhere behind him and to his right. “You need to swim!”

 _That’s very easy to to say when you’ve had the foresight to shed your outer layers, Scully,_ he thinks, but as she’s standing there in her pristine white silk shirt, his very own patron saint of all things, really, but hopelessly lost creatures in particular - he knows she is right. She’s even closer to the waterfall than he is, but given that the water only reaches to her mid-thigh, the river must simply be shallower on that side. If he swims against the current and to his right, he might just make it.

“Mulder! Please…”

It’s cute, really, pocket-sized physicist that she is, that Scully of all people would reach out for him as if it made any difference across such a distance, but then again maybe it does, because he finds himself dashing towards her.

Then she lowers herself into the water.

“Scully, for fuck’s sake -”

“No, no, no - there’s a ledge here, it’s okay, it’s - ah -”

She twitches while letting herself sink down until the cold water rises up above her waist, ribs, then shoulders; and then her whole head dips under for a second as she reaches for him again.

“Scuhll -” he splutters around a mouthful of water.

“It’s alright. It’s alright, it’s alright,” and it is, because she’s got her little hand wrapped around his wrist, “I’ve got you, Mulder.”

She has, and she pulls him in, and just then he doesn’t care that it’s freezing cold and they’re at the top of a waterfall, clutching at a rock where the water has eroded it; he takes his chance and clings to this water spirit closer than her own shirt does. She’s shaking and her heart is hammering against both his own chest and his hand on her back.

“Scully. Thank you, God.”

Cheek pressed to his soaked lapel and her wet hair sticking to his neck, she laughs.

“Just _Scully_ is fine, Mulder.”

-

“God, fuck - ‘s cold.”

“Uh-huh,” she pants as she climbs up the boulders behind him, taking his offered hand. Five steps away from the ledge and she’s tugging at his soaked-through coat sleeve. “We need to get you out of these clothes or you'll get hypothermia.”

“You too, and then we’ll walk the mile back down to the car naked, yeah?” he snorts, but dutifully sheds his waterlogged woollen trench coat as they walk the twenty or so yards back to the spot where she tossed her own coat and sweater before wading in after him.

The evening is maybe half an hour away from freezing temperatures now, and they’re already out of adrenaline and shaking.

“Well, as both your work colleague and your doctor I strongly suggest you wrap yourself in my coat.”

“What? No, I - I can't take your coat, Scully.”

“I have -”

“ _No,_ look, you were just in the water too -”

“It’s _fine,_  I have my sweater. And it's not even a whole mile. Besides, Mulder,” she says and picks up her coat to toss it at him, “you were in there a lot longer than I was.”

“Yeah, but I’m not -” he stops abruptly and looks down at the bundle of black wool in his hands.

She is reminded of that morning in the office, right after Philadelphia. Where he’d said, _yeah, but it's my_ \- before cutting himself off. She still doesn't know for sure what he’d wanted to say, but she’s come to think that the sentiment then was the same as it is now. As she thinks it is now. It leaves her with an altogether different feeling though; they’re in a different place. A better place.

_You're not what - sick? Dying?_

Oh.

“Get naked, G-man,” she quips through chattering teeth and turns maybe a hundred and sixty degrees away from him as she manages to undo the last button on her shirt and peel the wet and clinging silk off.

Hundred and sixty degrees as if to say, _I know we're in the forest and freezing and modesty is pointless but let me pretend to have some privacy anyway_. Hundred and sixty degrees says, _I’m not shutting you out, but please don't stare_. Says, _I can't stop you from looking but I can stop myself from looking at you looking at me like that_.

What he might have been about to say - _yeah, but I’m not skin and bones_.

She picks up her sweater and pulls it over her head, but unclasps and shrugs off her bra before sticking her arms through the sleeves; maroon lacy thing in her right hand, and how about that, Mulder.

He _is_ staring when she turns back around to face him, but by now she’s safe to pretend that it’s because he’s impressed by the trick. Or maybe just infatuated with the lingerie itself.

There's something: she's had to buy new suits; smaller suits, darker suits - but they're a lot cheaper than any in her old wardrobe because financially responsible Navy brats don't spend excessive amounts of money on clothes that will be ruined anyway. Scraps of lacy lingerie that no one else but her is going to see, though - the more extravagant and expensive, the better. Might be that it's a kind of compensation, and a kind that someone like Elizabeth Jones would never indulge in, but if it makes her feel better -

She rolls the bra up in her shirt and tugs the bundle under her arm.

He’s starring. And shirtless.

“You need help with those?” she nods towards his pants.

He shakes free of his trance. “No… no, I've - got it,” he manages and starts fumbling with his belt buckle.

He doesn't turn away.

She does. A hundred and eighty degrees away and twenty back.

-

They manage the not-even-a-whole-mile in just under twenty five minutes, their stiff and freezing bodies protesting the downhill trek. It starts raining halfway, turning stones and rotting tree trunks slippery under their feet.

He turns the heater in the car on full as soon as they're in, their wet clothes - useless guns and phones included - tossed in the back seat.

Even her coat was too small for him to do much more than drape it over his shoulders, so he opted for keeping his cold and clammy boxers on, not quite positive whether she’d meant for him to get _completely_ naked in the first place. Either way, Scully-the-Doctor herself is sitting there all prim and proper beside him; still wearing her wet trousers.

“You know, you can take those off now, we're in the car.”

“Not going to happen,” she says and reaches down to take off her boots instead, her stiff and uncooperative fingers evidently complicating the task.

“What, there’s no _I show you mine, you show me yours_ -rule with you? Because I already showed you mine,” he says and waggles his eyebrows.

“No,” she responds and finally manages to tug one boot off, hissing. He’s pretty sure it’s a blister he sees on her heel before she wraps her hand protectively around it. One thing: she’s wearing stockings underneath her trousers; never able to stay warm these days, but they can’t possibly be any help now. “Besides, I think I already showed you enough.”

 _God, Scully_ , he thinks. The cold trek through the forest had honestly made him forget, but - _God_. You’re not supposed to pull psychology bullshit on non-clients; not supposed to profile your partner, but now his Oxford-trained and BSU-honed gears start turning again.

It was one thing to glimpse it through the translucent, wet silk of her shirt, circumstances considered -

“Are you going to drive any time soon or do you want to change seats?” She lets the second boot drop to the floor and sits back up, looking at him.

So: it’s not because she thinks it fun; throwing him completely off-kilter and then acting like she didn’t, like she doesn’t know how what she just did or said affects him. She’s exactly as serious as she’s always been, it’s just that now she’s a little less shy and definitely less apologetic about it.

“Sorry.”

He starts the car and peels out of their parking spot, down the gravelly forest path and then left on the main road. Down, down down.

Wonders _why_ , because he knows it’s not as simple as time running out; not as simple as _soon to be dead so let's live life to the fullest._ That’s not even what Philadelphia was about, not really. He keeps his eyes on the road when she sniffles.

Perkins, whatever his motivations… that damn bastard. _Mulder, you’re a damn bastard._

“I didn’t mean anything with the -”

“I know. It’s okay,” she says, not unkind, and he thinks that _okay_ is better than _fine_. Better than pointed stares and dried rose petals; better than those bruises on her cheekbones she either couldn't or wouldn't cover up.

The light rain has turned into sleet.

“I just didn’t want you to be cold. Don’t want, still. So, uh.”

“I _know_ , and it’s - and your concern is appreciated, but it’s fine. I mean, with the heater on. It’s fine.”

He nods and thinks that _it’s fine_ must still be marginally better than _I’m fine_. Marginally. Every now and then her underlying high frequency shivers are interrupted by a more forceful quiver that seems to travel all the way down her little body, then up again.

“Right. Good.”

“Mulder, really. There’s only, what, fifteen minutes down to the hotel and then I can take - _oh_ , that’s just - can take a hot shower and - fuck!”

“Scully.” It’s not a prompting question because he doesn’t have to ask anymore, and he hates, hates, _hates_ that; hates that he can hear _my nose is bleeding_ so clearly even though she never, ever manages to say it. He pulls over and reaches for his coat in the back seat; for his own stash of Kleenex they pretend he doesn’t have unless it’s some kind of an extreme emergency.

Pointless, because the little pack of tissues is more or less dissolved.

Pointless, because she’s fished out her own from the glove compartment when he turns back around. He tries not to stare at the rorschach splotches on the soft white paper, on her cream sweater. Tries, with even less succes, not to slam his hands on the wheel.

“Mulder, it’s fine.” _Not_ better, not even marginally, after all. And the way she says his name; sometimes it means _you’re ridiculous_ , sometimes it means _you can’t be serious_ , sometimes it means _you’re wrong_. Every now and then it’s a catch-all _thank you_ , and he’s pretty sure he’s heard it like _I care about you_ at least three times now, even if it always takes him a stupid-long while to recognise that exact one. “I’m fine.”

“No.”

“It’s just - it just looks a lot worse than it is,” she insists and holds a third tissue up to her nose. She’s not quick enough and gets three more drops on her sweater.

“That’s… not very comforting, considering.”

She shouldn't even be trying to comfort _him_ , fucking hell, but he kissed her under harsh lights in a strange hospital hallway in Allentown and she hasn't been accepting of much since then.

“Look, for all we know, it could just be the, the, the - the cold combined with the very sudden heat now, or because I hit the wall -” as if she’d just up and walked into it on accident, “- it doesn’t have to be -”

“Yeah, well, _for all we know_ \- for all _you_ know, Scully - it is.”

“Mulder…”

The way she says his name: denasalized and skewed, and he can’t understand this; doesn’t have a reference point. It makes him sad, confused and angry to not know what to do about it. He has no idea what to do about it.

“Please just drive, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://catarinquar.tumblr.com)!


	3. III.

By the time they roll into the motel parking lot and stop in front of their connecting rooms, her nose has stopped bleeding. Mulder went from suggesting to pleading to demanding that they go to whatever passes for the local doctor’s clinic; at one point she was sure his death-white knuckles were about to break through the skin of his hands where they gripped the wheel.

For once her body seemed to be in agreement with her, though: _even Elizabeth Jones’ brain-surgeon husband can’t fix this, quit bleeding_. So it slowed, then stopped.

She ran out of her tissues first, though. Her hands are coated in still-slick blood, her upper lip is itching where it’s drying now, and her sweater has become a true Jackson Pollock in reds.

It’s a good thing, for once, that the cheap motel rooms have individual exterior entrances; she’s not sure she would have managed to walk past the teenaged receptionist or deal with some family in a hallway.

Her head hurts; getting out of the car is hard enough as is, and Mulder has already made his way around to grab their wet clothes and open her door before she gathers up the energy to get up. She turns around for her boots, buried beneath the brownish and dark red tissues that litter the floor of the car. Rental car.

“I’ll get that later,” Mulder mumbles and she is _grateful_. He guides her to her door with a hand on her elbow this time, and unlocks it for her. She wonders when or how he managed to find her key, but then he nudges her inside and follows. Locks the door behind them.

“Are you staying?” she asks, like there'd be such a difference if he went to the other side of the connecting door between their rooms.

His damp hair is plastered to his forehead; his cheeks are red from either the cold swim or the heat in the car, but the rest of him is a stark white in contrast to her black trench coat that's still hanging off his shoulders.

“I… do you want me to stay?”

He’d be Batman in cape and underpants, except she doesn't think, even with her limited knowledge of comic book characters, that Bruce Wayne’s usual costume includes that mix of worry and confusion so clearly painted on Mulder's face right now.

The whole image might make the Gunmen laugh, though she’s not sure what it does for her.

You should probably go take a shower. Get warm.”

“Yeah… you, too.”

It's saying something that he doesn't use the opportunity to make a suggestive joke; doesn't invite her to join him or something of that order.

“Right. So. See you in twenty.”

“Scully.”

“Twenty five, then. Whoever finishes first gets to choose for movie night,” she says and, determined not to have to suffer through another _Die Hard_ instalment and even more determined to _not have him look at her like that, goddamnit_ , reaches for her bundled up clothes. “Can I please have -”

He takes a step back, ends up miles away.

“ _Scully_.”

She sighs.

“Mul- _der_.”

“You gonna be okay?”

 _He’s an FBI agent,_  she’d told the EMT’s while Pendrell was bleeding out on the floor, _and he’s not going to die_. As if that meant anything; as if she wasn’t an FBI agent, as if she hadn’t been bleeding out right then and there. As if she wasn’t going to die.

“Of course I'm -”

“Oh, you stop that,” he hisses and shakes his head so violently the coat slips off.

“Stop what?”

“I don't know! Maybe, maybe - stop acting like I didn't just see you lose three pints of blood through your nose!”

And just like that, she feels her last energy reserves empty completely; feels the fight leave her. Even the room’s dim overhead light is too bright all of a sudden, there’s a pounding at the back of her skull now that both the adrenaline and cold shivers are gone and she hopes, hopes, hopes she doesn't actually physically slump in front of him, but she's scared she does.

“That was nowhere near three pints, I would've been -”

“It was a lot, Scully.”

He wasn’t there last Friday after her latest chemo treatment, of course, when she’d started bleeding while hanging over the toilet bowl and seriously, seriously thinking for a moment, _oh, so this is it. This is how I go._ Still.

“It was… a lot. Which is why I'm going to take a shower now, and then I’m going to bed. I suggest you do the same.”

He seems to take some time to decide on this, then nods, looks away, nods again, and picks up her coat to hang it over a chair where he also deposits her wet clothes, before retreating to his own room without another word.

He doesn't close the connecting door behind him.

As soon as she hears his shower running, she does; reconsiders, then opens it again to leave it ajar.

-

He washes his hair four, five times; with the bland motel shampoo he could swear the organic smell of river water still hangs around. If some of the soap gets in his eyes, then that's just peachy; he knows why they'll be red and stinging when he gets out.

If he’s shaking it's because his body is still not fully recovered from the cold river, is still adjusting to the temperature change.

If he has any thoughts beyond the automatics, they'll be lost in the heavy steam as he uses up all the hot water to let the mirror fog over while the room grows warm and humid.

The tile wall gets the last five slaps he managed to not inflict on the steering wheel and then he's done, out, drying himself off and slipping into sweats.

Slipping into Scully’s room.

It's ridiculously cold, considering, and so, so dark, but he can just barely see her curled up under layers of blankets; she’s got two top sheets and he figures she must have been in to snatch his.

How fucking long was he in the shower, anyway.

Her damp hair is the only part of her he can see until he drops down on his knees right beside her and manages a glimpse of her fine little eyebrows peeking over the edge of her blanket cocoon.

Perkins got away. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mulder just hasn’t spared the jackass a thought since he heard Scully jumping in the river after him, he could have excused himself; _neither of our phones were as lucky_ , but the fixed-line telephone on Scully’s bedside table reminds him - the man is their killer in all likelihood, and they still have no idea _how_ he killed any of his victims; the least Mulder could do is get in touch with deputy Martin, get someone to drive up to the shack.

He rocks up on his haunches, considers that he should get back to his own room and make the call, then sinks back down.

He's pretty sure she draws them up as part of her daily makeup routine, the eyebrows, that is; definitely spends eternities tweaking and plucking stray hairs the way she spends eternities fixing her cuticles and filing and polishing her nails. That is the secret Saturday post-bubble bath beauty ritual of this elusive Dana Scully who’ll shoot him and jump in a river both if only she thinks she can save him; the same Dana Scully who wears silk pajamas and owns about a hundred lotions and shampoos and an entire shelf of health cookbooks she doesn't have time to use; a fact she makes up for with small concessions such as low-fat cream cheese on her whole grain bagel and soy milk in her coffee.

The same Dana Scully who sometimes gets a little jealous and, at least as of recently, splurges on sets of matching underwear, and he thinks he might - with an equal measure of secrecy and only as long as he doesn't think far enough to reach even the third cousin twice removed of _why_ \- oh, that he might just love that kind of feminine softness about her.

Thinks he might love those freckles she usually hides away but he knows he'd be able to see right now if only it wasn’t for the dark, like he might love the way her air-dried hair will be all wild and curly tomorrow morning, even if it’s straightened and back in order before he ever gets a chance to see it.

Might love the feel of her skin underneath his thumb as he strokes across her cheekbone; might hate the purple under her eyes and might hate himself for waking her.

“Scully?”

She doesn't open her eyes but her lashes flutter and he's a little amazed by how long they are even without mascara; a little amazed that he feels her press into his hand where it still rests against her cheek.

“Hm?”

“We need some dinner.”

She blinks at him then, once, twice, lets her eyes fall closed again and stretches out; God, she must be so cold and tense still.

“Hm.”

“Scull- _eh_. I'm heading out in a minute. What're you up for?”

“Mulder.”

This time her eyes stay open, and he finds that while he misses the blue - in their basement, in the corners, in the shadows, in the night; in whatever kind of darkness they can think to inhabit, hers are still the most beautiful eyes he knows. He’s a fucking sap and he can live with it.

“I'm here.” This underlined by another slow glide of his thumb across her face.

“Mulder, I was sick. ‘n the shower right now.” She speaks into the edge of the blanket and with her fresh face and the way she scrunches up her nose - it makes her look like a little kid who thinks she did something wrong, like she’s expecting furrowed brows and a mean _I told you so_. She won’t get it.

“I know,” though of course he didn't; too busy whining in his own shower. “Still need to eat something, though. Chicken soup?”

“Hmn. Advil?”

“Sure, for dessert. Can't take painkillers on an empty stomach, Dr. Scully.”

He thinks she smiles just a little at this; is sure he hears a laugh-like huff.

“Okay. Chicken soup.”

Then she uncurls further and the slight weight of her head leaves his hand as she twists around to face inward on the bed.

He waits on his knees until her breathing slows down, and then, telling himself it's alright because she's asleep, tugs the blankets all the way up to her ears again; turns the heater up just a notch.

Hangs her wet coat, clothes and that damn matching lacy underwear up in the bathroom and heads out through his own room.

When he sees the bloody tissues and her ridiculously small boots on the floor of the car - but no, this time there's no soap to blame so he doesn't, doesn't, doesn't cry.

-

She counts five minutes before he gets up to tuck the blankets in around her and at least seven between the snick of the door when he exits through his own room and then the car starting outside.

She doesn't count how many it takes for her to get up from the bed, but it's too many and too few, and stupid in any event: not even ten seconds pass before she has to go down on her knees in the exact spot where Mulder just sat and wait for the room to stop spinning.

It’s not likely that she sustained a concussion but saying she’s been through the ringer would still be putting it mildly. She never ate that sandwich; her vomiting had mostly been spit, bile and then dry heaves; and the last time she consumed something other than coffee would have been their breakfast at the airport in Portland. Her blood sugar is no doubt too low.

Her blood _volume_ is no doubt too low.

She doesn’t count how long it takes her to get off the floor and move to the bathroom, either, but she’s too quick to empty her too-small glass of water and then spends too long staring at that little prescription bottle of Percocet. _Not necessary,_ she tells herself, _not necessary, not necessary_. Mulder will be back with more Advil in a short while. And chicken soup, which he’ll of course make her eat in front of him.

The telephone on her bedside table says, _you need to call down to the station about Perkins,_ but her headache - and just maybe her pride - says not to and instead she crawls back under the covers again, thinking that maybe Mulder took care of it.

She must fall asleep because when she opens her eyes again, he is back to sitting there beside her bed and she knows she didn’t hear him come in.

“Hi,” she says, and it is so easy, so easy to make him smile; she looks at his open face and can’t help but think, _I just did that_ and then _it would be easier if I didn’t_.

“Hi, you. I got you chicken soup. And crackers. And, uh… they didn’t have any Advil but Motrin is supposed to be the same thing, right?” His throat sounds sore and she’s not sure she wants to know why; he drops his gaze for a second and she doesn’t want to know why that is, either, but then he shifts on his haunches and she gets the feeling he’s ready to spring out the door again if she says it isn’t. “The kid at the checkout said… said it was the same thing.”

“Yeah, it is. Ibuprofen. Thanks.”

She’s not blind to the fact that his following smile means _what’re you thanking_ me _for; you’re the one letting me take care of you_ , and it’s not that she doesn’t like it; in fact she’s afraid she really, really, really might - but it’s for that reason exactly that when she wakes up tomorrow morning, this will never have happened. All the more reason to appreciate it now, then.

“Why don’t you come up here?”

“Scully… you need to eat.”

Oh.

“I know. I will,” she promises and lifts herself up on one elbow as if to demonstrate. “Just get up here, it’ll be warmer.”

“Are you suggesting that we eat dinner in bed?” he says then, this time purring and flashing what could be a precursor to a real Cheshire cat grin.

“Yeah. I’ll even let you choose from whatever lousy movies are on TV if you promise not to get food in my bed.”

Even the dimmed light from the bedside lamps sends stabs of pain through Scully’s head, so they turn them off as soon as Mulder is situated with their food. They end up settling for a game of baseball that even he admits is less than exciting and after twenty minutes Scully has still only managed half her bowl and a couple of crackers. Still, Mulder is close enough that she can feel his warmth and he is oh so careful not to spill soup or crumbs in her bed.

“The things I do for you, Scully,” he jokes and she thinks, _yes, the things you do for me_.

Things such as also bringing her two small tablets during a game break when a glass of water is all she asks for; things such as letting her use his shoulder as a pillow without comment when her eyelids start to droop; such as staying beside her in the bed until she is deep asleep and such as letting her be woken up by her alarm clock the next morning; alone, because he knows her that well. Such as keeping an eye on her but not hovering over the next week as they wrap up their end of the case and hand the rest over to local law enforcement.

Scully gets her hands on the body of Elijah Smith on the second day and finds nothing, nothing, nothing which is just as well seeing as _nothing_ is approximately all she has from the old cases to hold any findings up against. When they get around to interviews, friends of Smith only report that he’d been feeling tired for a while.

They take turns staking out Perkins’ sorry excuse for a house together with the local officers. Armed with a court order and backed up by deputy Martin’s best, they ransack the place on the fifth night after the toxicology report comes back from Quantico showing trace amounts of digitalis.

In one room, curtains drawn, they find an amateur lab; in another they find a regular botanic garden bathed in artificial lights.

“I don’t know about you, Scully,” Mulder huffs beside her, “but while I wont claim that plants are my specialty, I’m pretty damn sure I know foxglove when I see it.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask. Bad childhood memories associated with the name?” she quips and walks over to inspect the plant with its characteristic purple bells.

“Something like that. Tell me, dear scientist, are these all poisonous plants? Have we stumbled into the lair of some sick plant-poisoner?”

“When you put it that way, one would think it’s the plants he poisons.”

“See, I don’t even know if that’s semantics or syntax.”

“Me neither. Anyway, there’s a lily of the valley over there. Several nightshade species. I’d say it’s safe to bet that Elijah Smith died from chronic digitalis poisoning and with what little we _do_ know about the victims from five years ago, I’m willing to guess that Perkins was indeed… experimenting with different plant toxins.” She takes in his perturbed look and can’t resist. “What, is he not quite the Pamela Isley you were hoping for?”

“Well, no,” he pouts. Batman in a cape and all, indeed.

“What a disappointment,” she finally offers when the underlying _but there’s nothing supernatural about this!_ gets too loud to ignore. Too loud, too bright; really, the only X-file here is how Perkins manages to procure enough gasoline for his electric generator.

The idiot himself comes sneaking back the next morning, not very smart after all and looking for all he’s worth as if he’s been hiding in the forest the whole time. He is arrested and charged with six accounts of murder by poisoning.

Mulder calls Elizabeth Jones and lets her have a few more details from the case than is strictly appropriate, promises her he’ll look forward to reading her story, and politely declines her dinner invitation with a knowing look thrown Scully’s way.

So: the things he does for her, such as insisting, over celebratory rice and orange chicken in some chinese restaurant on the last night, that he pay the dry cleaner’s bill for her coat once they get back to D.C., saying only, _come on, I sat my wet butt on it, Scully;_ such as offering to drive her home from the airport when they arrive back at Dulles and then gracefully accepting it when she declines; such as gently tapping her elbow and leaning in until there’s just them and his whispered words -

“But please talk to your doctor one of these next few days, yeah?”

She will, she will; no one is saying it has to be the end just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on [tumblr](https://catarinquar.tumblr.com)!


End file.
